


Fireheart

by cyberkogane



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Designer Lance, Keith saves him, M/M, Minor Character Death, New York, Soulmates, firefighter keith, poor lance was just trying to make some dinner, they fall in love, yanno how it goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-06 02:43:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15876828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyberkogane/pseuds/cyberkogane
Summary: "Honestly, Lance didn'tmeanto set off the alarm.One moment he was trying his best to sear some steak, hips swaying to the song on his shitty compact radio and the next a burst of fire shot toward his ceiling like it came straight from the depths of hell. How does that even happen? He only turned around to drink some of his wine, throat parched from singing off pitch and then-Well, here he is, blue eyes wide at the burst of heat flaring at his back..."( In which Lance just moved to New York to pursue his dream of interior design and Keith didn't know what he was missing until it was cradled in his arms, covered in ash. )





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story partially inspired by this song: [Strength](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LCG3QGe9_7E) by The Alarm

 

* * *

  

 _Give me love, give me hope,_  
_Give me strength, give me someone to live for._  
  
_Who will light the fire that I need to survive?_  
_Who will be the life blood coursing through my veins?_

_Like a river flowing, that will never change._

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Honestly, Lance didn't _mean_ to set off the alarm.

One moment he was trying his best to sear some steak, hips swaying to the song on his shitty compact radio and the next a burst of fire shot toward his ceiling like it came straight from the depths of actual hell. How does that even _happen?_ He only turned around to drink some of his wine, throat parched from singing off pitch and then-

Well, here he is, blue eyes wide at the burst of heat flaring at his back. He yelps and turns, ransacking his brain to remember any survival tactics he'd learned throughout his youth. Stop, drop and roll was the winner in his memories but hell, the fire wasn't _that_ big.

But the smoke was already intense.

He immediately starts to cough, eyes watering at the sting before he bends to wrench open the compartment under his sink. He spots the fire extinguisher in the very back and tries his hardest to grab it but maybe he should have taken his best friend's advice and cleaned this thing out weeks ago. Bottles of counter cleaner and detergent are knocked over in his haste and when he finally grabs hold of the large red cylinder, he tries to yank it forward.

It doesn't move an inch.

"Fuck-" Lance coughs again and realizes that there's no way he can get this fire under control now.

With a desperate shout, he crawls toward his living room and bypasses the front door. Any rational person would be out in a flash, running to the street to watch as their world burnt to the ground. But, for someone like him, there's no way he can leave certain things behind.

"Pumpkin!" Lance shouts, finally rising to his feet to haul ass toward his bedroom.

The cat, like usual, is nowhere to be found. He brings an arm to his face and covers his nose, blinking away the blur of tears.

"Pumpkin, come here!" He clicks his tongue and snatches the sheets away from the bed, praying to the universe that she's just taking a nap.

No luck.

Next, he tries the space beneath the bed and the bundle of clothes in the corner, trying and failing to get the smoke away from his entire body. He gets back to his knees and takes a gulping breath at the small bit of relief he finds there; knowing it won't last for long.

Though suddenly, _finally_ , he hears it. A small chirp of a meow resounds from ahead, one that both settles his nerves and makes him want to scream. Of all the times for his cat to be a stubborn ghost, now is most definitely the worst.

"C'mere baby-" He pushes aside his desk chair and sees the Russian Blue huddled in the corner, back arched in defense.

He grabs her by the tuft of hair on her neck and pulls her close, already saying goodbye the rest of his belongings. He'd just moved in and already this safe haven was stolen from him. New tears prick his eyes but they aren't from the heavy smoke. With a shuddering breath, he crawls toward the door that he closed, hoping it would buy him time in case the fire spread to the hallway.

But before he can reach for the handle, the door is flying from the hinges. Through the thick grey smoke and against the sound of a blaring alarm, a man stands against the backdrop of flames.

He spots Lance and immediately grabs him, easily hoisting him into his arms as if he weighs next to nothing. Lance lets out a sharp pitch of noise and holds Pumpkin tighter in his arms, uncaring that if this were any other situation he'd probably be ecstatic to be held like this. His other arm rises to hold on to the man's thick uniform, slightly scared that he'll be dropped onto the hot floor.

The firefighter places a clear mask over Lance's nose and mouth before hoisting his body higher, urging him to remain calm. Then he is running through the apartment and Lance watches the passing of his kitchen; the way two men beat back the flames with a ginormous hose.

When they emerge in the foyer of the apartment complex, the sunlight pushes against Lance's eyes harsh enough to make him squeeze them shut. They take to the stairs but Lance doesn't really notice.

Once, he read something about smoke inhillation being the leading cause of death in fires. Sure, the flames could catch you up and burn you to a crisp if you didn't manage to get to the floor and find a way out. But more often than not, those who would otherwise survive the tragedy are taken to the hospital with so much smoke in their lungs, it both poisons and suffocates them.

Lance wheezes and the firefighter stops on the sidewalk, looking erratically for an ambulance and the paramedics that should already be here.

"Traffic jam on...clearing a path but-"

The voices come and go in waves. Lance's head lolls and distantly, he feels someone take Pumpkin from his arms but he can't even find the strength to beg them not to take her away.

"Fuck." A deep voice says in his ear and he's placed on the ground gently, the blue sky fading in and out with each blink.

He manages to bring his eyes to the right, just long enough to spot a swath of black hair falling free from a helmet. Long enough to see a grim mouth and a scar and, just before the final beat of something in his ears, beautiful grey eyes.

 _Like_ _rain clouds,_ he thinks deliriously. 

And then the world goes dark.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Shit, shit, shit." Keith curses, ripping his gloves from his hands to wipe at the collected ash on the young man's face.

The guy  is still as a statue, blue eyes falling shut with a final stuttering breath. Keith has no time to wait for the paramedics, no time to run around and ask the gathering crowd if any of them know CPR.

He has no time to do anything but this.

Bracing his hands together, he laces his fingers and places them on the boy's chest. There is the telltale crack of ribs as he pushes hard enough to reach the heart before beginning to count, knowing he has to move rapidly. Distantly, he can hear more sirens approaching but he doesn't stop, not even for a minute.

 _"C'mon."_ He growls, face pouring with sweat.

The blaze had spread to the living room by the time Keith kicked the front door from its hinges. Now, the heat of the summer sun sits heavy on his face, somehow feeling more abrasive than the confines of the small New York apartment. He pushes and pushes, fingers beginning to ache with the force of it.

He won't let this guy die. With the rapid blaze of his own desperation, Keith leans down and tilts the boy's head up an inch, keeping his mouth open with his thumb and forefinger. Their lips collide and Keith urges his own breath to bring new life. To enter the stranger's lungs and soothe the burn, to bring him back to the world.

Keith pulls away and starts pushing on his chest again, grunting with the grit of his teeth. And, just as the paramedics pull onto the curb and push through the crowd, there is a burst of breath. The guy gasps but it immediately turns to coughs, his blue eyes fluttering in the wake of his revival. Medics slide to the ground beside him and slide an oxygen mask over his mouth, already lifting him to a bright yellow stretcher.

The boy's fingers grip Keith's own but he didn't even notice him grab hold in the first place. He holds tight before the medics lift him into the air, quickly running toward the back of the ambulance.

When they pull away with a screech of tires, Keith is left kneeling on the cement.

 

 •••

 

After the rush of a call, his nights usually end like this.

Keith crashes onto the couch of the firehouse, legs aching and limp. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, listening to the drone of the TV and the voices of his team in the kitchen, goofing off and fighting over the last pudding cup.

Normally, he'd roll his eyes and steal the cup away for himself. They'd be so busy arguing that they wouldn't notice the missing treat until he's eaten all of it, more than content by the sugar and victory.

Tonight, however, he is drained. The fire on Sunrise Avenue had been a catastrophe avoided, if only because the flames hadn't spread to the other floors. But even if they could rest knowing they saved countless lives, there was still one that plagues Keith's mind. Brown skin and blue eyes flash in his head-space, the weight of him still snug in Keith's arms.

"Still no news?"

Keith cracks an eye open and spots Shiro, fresh from the shower. He plops onto the old couch and groans, stretching his arms far above his head.

"Nah." Keith shakes his head.

Shiro rests a hand on his shoulder, "I'm sure the guy's fine. Sometimes it takes a while before they can let us know."

"Rarely this long."

"True. But you know Matt won't leave us hanging."

Keith does know that. Their friend always remembers to call and let them know if the person they hopefully saved manages to pull through. And most of the time, they do.

But that's not always the case.

Those people, the one's lost to the flames, haunt Keith.

 _They people stay right in your heart._ His dad had explained to him when he was a child, curious and in awe of the job. _They never let go. But for every life lost, there are hundreds more saved, buddy._

Keith knows he shouldn't obsess over it.

He knows it and yet-

"You need to eat something." Allura speaks up, her short hair held back by a thin rubber band, "Kinkade made hot dogs and I ran to grab some burgers. Take your pick."

Keith sighs and sits up, a small smile falling across his lips. "Burger."

She grins and throws the fast food on his lap, seemingly prepared for his answer. When Keith first joined the team, Allura had been a godsend. She'd bug him to eat until he finally did, urge him to train and keep his mind away from the violent calls, always quick to knock the back of his and Shiro's heads with her hand when they started to rough house and interrupt her naps. He appreciates her. He appreciates all of them.

"Think we can finish a movie tonight?" Shiro asks, biting into his own food, "I'm feelin' dinosaurs."

Several people groan as they enter the room, a chorus of _not again_ and _you gotta be kiddin' me_ making Shiro look positively offended.

"Jurrassic Park is a _great_ franchise."

"The third one sucks." Keith licks some mustard from his finger, "And you know it."

This starts a loud bicker, differing opinions filling up the firehouse with familiarity. Keith ignores Allura's condemnatory look, knowing exactly what he did. But when working shifts as long and tough as theirs, it's better to stay goofy than let the fatigue press on your nerves.

Keith chews his burger in content, trying to keep the nagging worry from clouding his mood. His phones sits charged beside him, volume turned all the way up. He's ready, more so than usual and he doesn't really understand why. Any other time he'd wait for the call but it wouldn't prick at his chest like little fire ants. Waiting wouldn't make him feel like he's gonna go mad, foot tapping in anticipation.

In the end, they never even start the movie. The alarm goes off with a deafening whir and Keith throws his food to the ground, following everyone else as they take off to suit up. This alone distracts him. He pushes his helmet onto his head and grabs hold of the truck before hoisting himself into the seat, adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream.  
  
The second the truck pulls out onto the busy city streets, his phone lights up, ringing with an echo into the empty building. 

 

* * *

 

 

Lance wakes with a headache, the kind that pulses at his temple and sticks like hot glue. He groans and reaches a hand toward the pain, feeling a sharp tug on the inside of his arm. Looking down, he spots the invasive IV, listening to the hum of machines and slow drip beside the bed. 

"Woah, woah." Hunk gently brings his arm back to the stiff sheets, "Take it easy."

Memories come back to Lance with each slow blink and he winces, both from the dry roof of his mouth and the thought that he'd literally almost _died_.

"Stupid fucking steak."

Hunk looks at him as if he'd suddenly sprouted three heads. "Uh, you ok? Other than, you know, being in a hospital bed and all."

Lance sighs and feels his throat sting, eyes immediately filling to the brim with tears.

"I'm an idiot." He wipes at his cheeks and sniffs loud, "I could've burnt my whole complex to the ground. I...I could have _killed_ people, Hunk."

"They got it under control." Hunk is starting to sound a bit panicked, never one to like seeing other people cry, let alone his best friend. "No one got hurt and even if they did, you can't control shit like this."

"Pumpkin?" Lance asks, suddenly feeling a new grief wash over him. "I thought I got her out but-"

"You did and she's totally, completely safe. The little devil is probably tearing up my bathroom as we speak. You've been asleep for hours and you know she can't stand being away from you for more than two."

Lance scoffs a laugh, "Right."

"Once they let you outta here, you can come stay with me for as long as you need. I'll cook us dinner every night and we can watch shitty rom-com's just like the old days."

"No steak." Lance orders, feeling a new ridiculous hatred for the food. 

Hunk lets out a bemused laugh and leans close to ruffle Lance's hair, eyes shining with unshed tears. Though Lance can see that they're red rimed anyway, knowing he must have cried throughout the entire night.

"Have you talked to my mom?"

At this, Hunk grimaces. "Yeah and she's probably packing right now to bring you all the way back to Cuba."

Lance rolls his eyes, a fond feeling settling in his smoke-worn chest.

A chest that aches with each breath, reminding him with startling intensity that his survival wasn't miraculous. There had been no great deity to thrust him from the dark, no otherworldly presence guiding him away from the light. Instead, he sees a flash of black hair and grey eyes, a smooth voice turning to panic in the chaos.

"Shit." Lance winces, "The firefighter who carried me out. I need to like, thank him somehow, right?"

"Uh-"

"A letter, maybe? No, that's lame. I mean, the guy literally saved my life. Flowers are pretty but would he even like them? Do tough, macho fire dudes like flowers?"

A wracking cough takes over his worries and he feels his stomach clench, nausea rolling up the length of this throat.

Hunk calls out for a nurse and stands to rub at Lance's back, mindful of his wrapped ribs. Lance coughs so hard he thinks his lungs are gonna rupture, face turning a shade darker, bloodshot eyes squeezed tight against the pain.

A nurse rushes in and puts an oxygen mask over his face, urging him to take deep, steadying breaths.

"This is normal." She assures Hunk, already injecting some clear fluid into his IV. "But he'll need to stay in observation for at least another night."

The news makes Lance feel like shit. But as his nerves settle and his breathing starts to even out, he knows it's important that he sits right here. That he doesn't move an inch, even if he wants nothing more than to run all the way back home.

Regardless of his new independence, sometimes he just wants his mom. He wants her hugs and quiet voice, the language of their homeland soothing enough to sprout flowers in his heart.

Hunk takes a seat and turns on the TV, stopping at the sight of some old cartoon, probably knowing the pain meds will have Lance knocked out in minutes. But in the face of an event like this, one where he could have lost his closest friend, there's no doubt that Hunk just wants everything to feel as normal as possible.

And for that, Lance is grateful.  
  
He decides to worry about flowers and hospital bills and his ruined apartment tomorrow, when the shock has worn away. 

For now, he is eager to return to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, comments are very appreciated! (The minor death is not Adam, btw) 
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr @ [starshinebf](https://starshinebf.tumblr.com/) !


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

Keith was never a tame child.

There had always been a raging fire in his heart, hot enough to send his bare feet running across the red dusk of the Arizona desert. He'd howl with the coyotes, climb on outcroppings of jagged rock and imagine he had a spread of wings; eager to take off to the stars. Survival came easy to him and his father always made sure to take them on weekend excursions to the rural wild, giving him tips on how to set humane traps if he should ever need food and how to track prints; where to search for water and how to hold his knife when carving into wood.

 _All of these constellations are billions of years old._ His father would whisper, pointing at the sea of stars above their heads. _When we die, who knows? We might even join them to watch over our planet._

And Keith, for all of his strategic thoughts and angry tangents, latched onto that thought with fierce obsession. They would lay in the back of his dad's pickup truck and even when the fire had died down, when the coyotes started their echoing howls or the husky desert wind played with the ends of Keith's hair, he'd sit up and stare at that horizon.

He'd stare and stare and sometimes, he'd wonder if his mom was looking back. Two years later, he'd wonder the same about his dad. 

"Go get some rest." Shiro rubs at Keith's shoulder, effectively drawing him out of his thoughts.

Keith looks away from the cloudy night sky and nods, knowing he'll have to be back in two days for another lengthy stay.

"This shift's been _brutal_." Allura groans and picks up her bag, nodding at the new team taking their place, "I don't know about you guys but I'm gonna take the bubbliest bubble bath that ever bubbled. And drink some wine. Lot's of wine."

Smirking, Keith turns to grab his jacket and keys, hoisting his bag higher on his shoulders. The city at night is still alive, bright and busy. He watches Shiro say goodbye to the rest of the team, ever the polite captain, before sending a wave to Keith. When all of them are gone, Keith leans against the brick for a moment longer. His bike sits a short distance away, the metal glinting beneath the lights of the buildings and streetlamps. Cars honk and people talk, walking toward the subway while some head to clubs and restaurants open for dinner.

By force of habit, he pulls his phone from his pocket and pushes the button to check his messages. The screen is black and unresponsive, a testament to his forgetting to plug it in hours ago. He lets out a puff of annoyed breath and finally pushes away from the wall, fatigue starting to hit him hard.

He starts his bike with a low rumble and lifts his shoulders to settle the straps of his bag, shoulders aching. His helmet visor is dark and he welcomes the relief from the bright lights, blinking at the tired sting in his eyes.

Then, with a kick of the stand, he drives.

After the death of his father, Keith had always been drawn to engines and tires and fast travel. More than once, he'd been caught trying to break into cars in their small desert town. Honestly, he just wanted to sit behind the wheel. There was no way he could've known how to hot wire any of them nor did he even know _how_ to drive. Over time, however, his reputation would build.

_Poor child, orphan, foster kid- untrustworthy, thief, delinquent-_

His court ordained therapist had tried to delve into why Keith acted out in such extremes.

 _Perhaps it is a form of escape._  Shelly had suggested, voice calm against the sight of his clenched fists. _You may be trying to run from what happened. And this is normal, Keith. But all of our actions have consequences. Now, let's talk about some healthy coping strategies..._

Keith takes several corners with extreme speed, zooming in and out of traffic with ease. Compared to the desert, New York thrums with a tireless beating heart. It's rough, though not in the way of scratches from bramble and bruises from climbing on rocks. It's lonely, even though Keith is almost always surrounded by people.

As he pulls up to his apartment complex and turns off the engine, he supposes it's better than wasting away.

At least here, he is forced to live.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The bathroom is a war-zone.

Toilet paper is strewn from wall to wall, the bath rug clawed to shreds, shower curtain pulled from the silver pole. 

"How did she get into the toilet?!" Hunk groans and leans against the wall, watching as Lance pulls Pumpkin from the confines of the bath tub, "I made sure the lid was shut. Like, triple checked!"

"Pumpkin works in mysterious ways." Lance smiles and holds her close, breathing in the familiar musk of her fur.

Hunk rolls his eyes, "Yeah. Sure she does."

"I'll come clean this up-"

"No way!" Hunk uses a large hand to gently push Lance out of the room, "Your doc said you need to take it easy for a few days."

Lance nods, though not without guilt. While he knows it technically wasn't his fault that Pumpkin threw the fit of the century, he still considers her his responsibility. 

With a defeated sigh, he places a kiss atop her head and wanders into the living room. Hunk's apartment is nice, cozy and clean and comforting. He breathes in the smells before plopping onto the couch, letting out a low groan at the pain that flares in his chest. His lungs squeeze and burn, throat just as parched as it had been when he woke in the hospital.

"Your meds are in the bag by the door!" Hunk calls out, the sound of the flushing toilet temporarily drowning out his voice, "-and I guess i'll make us something cold for dinner. To soothe your tonsils!"

Fondness spreads throughout Lance just as a wet dew springs to his eyes. He looks to the kitchen and already starts to imagine a renovation in his head, the thoughts slowly but surely drowning out the anxiety and sadness pooling like slow rising flood water. Hunk's appliance's are stainless steel, smooth and modern. His cabinets are a pretty deep mahogany and his counters are dark granite, speckled with gold.

But Lance sees something rustic in his head when he thinks of his own destroyed apartment, flashes of his childhood drawing out a new wave of homesickness.

Like clockwork, his phone rings with a sharp sound. He jumps and lets Pumpkin curl on his lap, tail swaying peacefully against the front of his knees. Wincing, he reaches into his pocket for his phone and spots the face on the screen, preparing himself for who he'll find on the other end.

"Momma." He breathes, listening to torrent of voices start up in the background.

She shushes them and Lance imagines his entire family gathered around the kitchen table, listening to his voice through the speaker, the surface worn from years and years of love and literal feasts. Paint splotches stain the sandalwood, knife marks digging deep from people cutting up food when the kitchen counters had been overtaken during holidays. On the left-hand side, just beneath the ridge, Lance's own doodles from childhood are drawn with the efficiency of any other seven year old.

"Baby," He can hear a smile in her voice, the smooth flow of Spanish instantly easing his tense shoulders, "how are you feeling now? Hungry? Have you eaten or are you too tired?"

Lance lets out a soft laugh, "I'm totally taken care of. You know how Hunk is. He's like a second _you_."

"He's always been such a good friend. If it weren't for him calming me down, I would be there in an instant."

Lance smirks at the thought, "We got this all under control."

"I know you do, baby. But it's a mother's job to worry."

They talk for a long while, the minutes ticking by until Hunk is finished in the bathroom, phone handed over as she talks his ear off. He laughs and nods, even though she can't see it. When they all say their goodbyes, Lance gulps against the urge to cry. There are intense instances that he sees the ocean in his mind's eye, the tossing blue waves calling to him like an old friend. When the cement outside turns gray with rain, he wants nothing more than to feel the froth on his toes; to welcome the sun against his eyelids. 

Hunk sets the phone on the table and leans back, pulling Lance flush against his side. It's always been easy for him to melt into Hunk's warmth and he can't count the number of times he'd done so in college, tired from endless hours of studying and practicals and several hour long lectures. 

 _These shifts are gonna kill me!_ Lance would groan, sipping his sweet bubbly wine after a full day of interning and training at the local hospital.

In the beginning, Lance was determined to become a doctor. He was ecstatic to save people, to dig deep into physical trauma's and pull them back to life. Sometimes, when his designs were taking over his walls and his new boss was already blowing up his phone with appointment dates, he wonders if he made the right decision to drop out of med school completely. If he had been an idiot to follow a passion for design, for colors and textures and dramatic displays of personality. 

Sometimes, he feels like a complete failure.

"You're gonna make your kitchen look one hundred times better than it was." Hunk says, practically reading Lance's mind; always seeming to know when he needs reassurance. 

Lance leans his head on Hunk's shoulder, "You think?"

"Hell yeah!" He brings a hand to ruffle Lance's hair, "You get your hands on a room or a house or even a damn office and it turns into a whole new world. It's like magic."

"Well, when it's all fixed up I want you to cook. Bless it with your godlike skills."

Hunk laughs and agrees, offering to make them something now. He jumps up and gets to work with skilled proficiency, telling Lance to pick a movie. 

They settle on Sinbad and eat a soft, cold noodle salad, delicious and refreshing and just what Lance needs.

That night, after he'd taken the longest shower of his life and adorned one of Hunk's comfy big shirts, he settles into the bed and snuggles close to his best friend. Pumpkin rests on his pillow, little claws digging into the material with a low purr. Outside, the city is still wide awake.

But here, it's quiet. Safe.

Lance falls asleep with a tiny smile. He dreams of pirates and the high seas, of adventure and goddesses that move like water. And hours later, when he wakes from a nightmare licking at his skin, flames rising like monsters, Hunk is there.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_He made it._

_It's kind of unbelievable, honestly, but you saved him. Good job, dude._

Matthew Holt's voice repeats the confirmations in Keith's head over and over, all the way to work. The voicemail was short but Keith doesn't blame him for it. He knows how busy the hospitals can be in a city like this.

Yet, he sort of wishes he could have gotten the doctor on the phone for a longer conversation.

With a grunt, he lifts his leg and gets off of his bike and hikes his bag higher on his shoulders, feeling like his little break wasn't long enough. Still, it's better than sitting in his apartment alone. Considering how rough the last few days were, it's not surprising that no one really wanted to go out. 

But it can get overwhelming; the silence. His TV tends to be a low drone against the voices of his neighbors murmuring through the thin walls, water dripping from a loose pipe somewhere in the ceiling. He'd popped his sleeping pills and snoozed for hours upon hours, waking only to eat and use the bathroom before returning to his nest of blankets.

When he walks into the firehouse, he's immediately brought up to date by Shiro, who'd talked to the opposite team's captain earlier that morning.

"That's the third time they forgot to fill up the tanks." Someone says, grumpy and annoyed.

Shiro nods, "I know but let's just get it done. I'll talk to Kolivan about it soon."

The mention of the man makes Keith feel a bit sorry for whoever he'll be tearing into. Their boss was known for his stoic visits, supportive and at ease but strict all the same. If you got too many strikes, he wouldn't hesitate to send you packing.  
  
People disperse to deal with different things; some putting on coffee while others grab rags to wipe down the trucks. Allura follows Shiro to the training room but in the end, none of them get very far. The alarm blares with a screech and Keith throws his bag onto the couch before running straight to his locker.

He rips it open and pulls the suit on, quick and sure. When he first learned how to do it, he'd tried his hardest to remember the steps and which way certain things were supposed to sit on his body. Making sure his helmet is snug and the mask on his mouth isn't faulty, he sprints to Big Red, taking to the step with ease. Shiro jumps in a moment later, starting the ignition and pulling out before Allura can fully shut the door in the back.

The streets, like always, are ridiculously busy. But almost everyone follows the law and gets out of their way and for that, the entire team is grateful. The radio on Shiro's shoulder buzzes and Kolivan's voice comes through, giving them the exact coordinates of the building. They make a right turn and the sirens wail loud and clear, bouncing off of buildings and alleys.

Looking up, Keith can see billowing smoke already rising into the air. Another department meets them there but he doesn't waste any time, instead following Allura toward the burning building with determined steps. Flames lick at the windows and people are running out, mouths covered by their arms, coughing and following instructions to wait at the curb from the fireman placed at the door. He nods to Keith and Allura when they pass, the pair almost always working as a team to find anyone left behind or lost or confused. The air is hazy with smoke when they enter and something falls in another room, bringing with it a flare of ember and heat. It's suffocating and chaotic, almost always a literal hell brought to earth. 

Keith listens intently for any human-like sounds; crying or pleading, screaming or talking. They go room to room, careful to avoid certain sections that appear faulty. Stairs are always tricky but they bound up anyway, hearing the telltale sound of powerful spraying water pelting against the inferno. Outside, Shiro is probably hooking up another hose to a hydrant, face turned to stone in concentration.

"Over here!" Allura shouts, motioning for Keith to enter a small room.

Flames threaten to climb higher and higher but Keith won't let that stop him. He surges forward at the sight of the children huddled near a bunk bed, their faces tear stricken with shock. The moment he's close enough, he lifts a young girl into his arms and cradles her head against his chest. Allura is already running back out and he follows suit, murmuring to the child to hold on.

"I'm gonna get you outta' here." He says, hoping his suit can keep her from the high levels of heat.

She coughs and he moves faster, knowing that time is always of the essence. She screams and grips at him, calling for her mom with harsh hiccups.

"Almost there." Keith says, seeing the door open up ahead. "Almost there-"

Daylight blinds him the second they emerge but he doesn't let it slow him down. He simply bypasses several people sitting on the sidewalk, obviously shaken but thankfully alive. Medics are waiting and he places the girl down gently, the bed of the ambulance a wash of equipment and stark silver metal. The girl grips his suit tighter, sobs wracking her entire body.

"You're okay." Keith assures her, "Everything is alright."

But she just looks up at him, eyes wide against her brown skin.

"Hey, you wanna know something?" He squats and gives a quick apologetic look to the medic trying to wrap a pulse band around her arm, "You're _very_ brave. That's your brother, right?"

Shakily, she glances at the small boy in the next ambulance before giving a small nod.

"Right." Keith tries for a smile, "And you stayed with him the entire time, didn't you? I saw how you held onto him." She nods again and he offers his hand for her to grab.  
  
She slides her small hand against his palm and he wraps his fingers around her own, remembering the way his dad used to do the same when Keith would wake up with bad dreams.

"You-" She hiccups but he can see the way her shoulders settle just an inch, "You were brave too."

Keith lets out a shocked, breathy laugh, "Not as brave as you."

Suddenly, with no warning, she pushes forward and wraps her arms around his shoulders. He's tense but this happens more times than he can count. People in times of crises either fall away from others, keeping to themselves for instinctual protection, or they search endlessly for physical support. In the beginning, Keith was almost always tense and eager to break away, unsure of how he should react.  
  
He embraces her and lets her cry some more, fear still festering within her mind. But eventually, with a gentle pat on her back, she finds the strength to let go. Keith memorizes her face like so many others and reminds himself that this is why he does what he does.  
  
To save people.  
  
To mourn his father in a way that is proactive, in a way that he would be proud of.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Okay." Lance whispers, bouncing a bit on his feet. "Okay, you got this. You're great at stuff like this."

Waking up early with the intent to meet his savior was, by all accounts, extremely nerve wracking. He'd debated much too long on what to wear before settling on a simple blue shirt and jeans and then he'd spent way too long on his hair, the stubborn waves threatening to curl on the nape of his neck.  
  
Now he stares at a firehouse that is _seriously_ big and through one of the two open garage's, he can see the bright, shiny red of the huge trucks.

He remembers being in elementary school and visiting his local firehouse, though it was much smaller. More welcoming, somehow. 

Less intimidating.

"Can I help you?"

Lance lets out an embarrassingly high pitched noise and looks away from the trucks, cheeks immediately heating.

"Oh, uh. Yes."

The woman raises a sharp silver brow and he wonders, absentmindedly, if it's been dyed. Her hair is short and her skin dark but he can still see ash and oil and grime. There's a sharp intelligence behind her eyes, the likes of which narrow at his awkward stance.  
  
She is beautiful enough to make his stomach flip.

"Right." He says, trying to get a hold of himself. "You probably have no idea who I am. Obviously. But I'm here to thank someone?"

"Is that a question?" She asks, voice both cautious and humored.

"Kinda?" He brings a hand to rub at the back of his neck, "I'm not sure _who_ I'm supposed to be thanking. Like, I hope he's here cause I was technically supposed to call my boss five minutes ago but for some reason this is more important, you know?"

She nods but he can tell she has no idea what he's talking about.

"So, um, you know him?" He glances around, "The guy, I mean. Who saved me like a week ago?"

She stares at him, mouth twitching.

"You Lance?"

Lance balks, "Have we met?"

He would _definitely_ know if they have. It's not like the smoke gave him amnesia. 

"Nope." She nods back toward the firehouse, "But I'll be right back."

She disappears into the building and Lance is left waiting like a prom date. He feels like it's his senior year all over again; anxious and excited, wondering if maybe he'd get stood up or threatened to death by the girl's father.

Though, in the end, he doesn't have to wait long. One moment he's wandering a bit to place a hesitant hand on a firetruck and the next he's startling at the sound of someone clearing their throat. When he turns around, the woman is nowhere to be seen.

In her place, there is a man.

A startling, all too familiar man. His black hair is covered in soot and his face is splotched by ash and grit, obviously having just returned from another fire. Lance gulps and grips the bundle in his right hand tighter, feeling his voice die in his throat.

The guy is honestly, _seriously_ , attractive. 

"Hi." Lance manages to blurt, hoping his voice doesn't sound as nervous as it does in his own ears.

"Hi."

Lance bites at his lip before taking a hesitant step forward, arm thrust out, flowers flopping with the sudden motion, "These are for you. For, you know, saving my life and all."

"Oh." The guy's voice is calm but Lance can spot the way he shifts his eyes to right, unsure. "Thanks."

"I'm Lance." Lance says, relief pouring into him when the flowers are taken from his hand. "Wasn't sure if you knew that but the girl I talked to earlier seemed to know me? Which was kinda weird, I guess."

"Keith."

The name is a bit of a shock but almost immediately, Lance decides that he likes it.

"Nice to meet ya'." Lance lets a grin fall on his lips.

A horn blares and he winces, feeling a spike of pain spark at his temple. Keith must notice because he quickly throws a thumb toward the door, offering silently if Lance would like to go inside.

For a second, Lance thinks he should just get out of here. He thinks that maybe he should get back into Hunk's car and start the ignition, to let the pathetic little thank you be all that rises between them. There's still a boss to call and a hospital bill to stare at in horror and countless other responsibilities building at his back. But then he remembers the way Keith's eyes looked after the nightmare of the fire. And he remembers the way he'd grabbed hold of Keith's hand, feeling like he'd known the boy all of his life.

So, with a flutter in his solar plexus and the butterfly beating of his heart, he smiles. And though they say nothing to each other, they still walk side by side. It's not much but Lance is eager to make new friends in this big city, more than ready to find his own little niche. His place.   
  
The door opens and voices emerge, a strange mixture of smells hitting his nose.   
  
He supposes that in regards to second meetings, this is better than violent flames and near death and broken ribs.  
  
This is, he decides, a good start. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone needs a best friend like Hunk :') 
> 
> I'm so happy that there's interest in this story! I can't wait to get more chapters out for all of you <3 I'm working on a playlist for this story and there'll be a link in the next chapter. 
> 
> Thank you so much for any/all comments and kudos.


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